‘Without sponsorship such payment would be construed as a donation. There is legal precedent to back that interpretation.’
‘You’d take my coin and give me nothing in return?’
‘That is the essence of a charitable donation, is it not?’
‘I don’t think it is, but never mind that. What you are telling me is that I cannot become a member of the Guild of Blacksmiths.’
‘Membership is open to all blacksmiths wishing to work in the city, I assure you. Once you have been sponsored.’
‘Which makes it a closed shop.’
‘A what?’
‘The Malazan Empire encountered closed shops in Seven Cities. They broke them wide open. I think even some blood was spilled. The Emperor was not one to cringe before professional monopolies of any sort.’
‘Well,’ the clerk said, licking his slivery lips, ‘thank all the gods the Malazans never conquered Darujhistan!’
Barathol stepped outside and saw Mallet waiting across the street, eating some kind of flavoured ice in a broad-leaf cone. The morning’s heat was fast melting the ice, and purple water was trickling down the healer’s pudgy hand. His lips were similarly stained.
Mallet’s thin brows rose as the blacksmith approached. ‘Are you now a proud if somewhat poorer member of the Guild?’
‘No. They refused me.’
‘But why? Can you not take some kind of exam-’
‘No.’
‘Oh. . so now what, Barathol?’
‘What? Oh, I’ll open up a smithy anyway. Independent.’
‘Are you mad? They’ll burn you out. Smash up your equipment. Descend on you in a mob and beat you to death. And that’s just on opening day.’
Barathol smiled. He liked Malazans. Despite everything, despite the countless mistakes the Empire had made, all the blood spilled, he liked the bastards. Hood knew, they weren’t nearly as fickle as the natives of his homeland. Or, he added wryly, the citizens of Darujhistan. To Mallet’s predictions he said, ‘I’ve handled worse. Don’t worry about me. I plan on working here as a blacksmith, whether the Guild likes it or not. And eventually they will have to accept me as a member.’
‘That won’t feel very triumphant if you’re dead.’
‘I won’t be. Dead, that is.’
‘They’ll try to stop anyone doing business with you.’
‘I am very familiar with Malazan weapons and armour, Mallet. My work meets military standards in your old empire, and as you know, those are set high.’ He glanced across at the healer. ‘Will the Guild scare you off? Your friends?’
‘Of course not. But remember, we’re retired.’
‘And being hunted by assassins.’
‘Ah, I’d forgotten about that. You have a point. Even so, Barathol, I doubt us few Malazans can keep you in business for very long.’
‘The new embassy has a company of guards.’
‘True.’
‘And there are other Malazans living here. Deserters from the campaigns up north-’
‘That’s true, too, though they tend to hide from us — not that we care. In fact, we’d rather get their business at the bar. What’s the point in grudges?’
‘Those that come to me will be told just that, then, and so we can help each other.’
Mallet tossed the sodden cone away and wiped his hands on his leggings. ‘They tasted better when I was a young brat — although they were more expensive since a witch was needed to make the ice in the first place. Here, of course, it’s to do with some of the gases in the caverns below.’
Barathol thought about that for a moment as he looked upon the healer with his purple lips and saw, for the briefest moment, how this man had been when he was a child, and then he smiled once more. ‘I need to find a suitable location for my smithy. Will you walk with me, Mallet?’
‘Glad to,’ the healer replied. ‘Now, I know the city — what precisely are you looking for?’
And so Barathol told him.
And oh how Mallet laughed and off they went into the city’s dark chambers of the heart, where blood flowed in a roar and all manner of deviousness was possible. If the mind was so inclined. A mind such as Barathol Mekhar’s when down —
The ox, the selfsame ox, swung its head back and forth as it pulled the cartload of masonry into the arched gateway, into blessed shade for a few clumping strides, and then out into the bright heat once more — delicate blond lashes fluttering — to find itself in a courtyard and somewhere close was sweet cool water, the sound as it trickled an invitation, the smell soft as a kiss upon the broad glistening nose with its even more delicate blond hairs, and up rose the beast’s massive head and would not the man with the switch have pity on this weary, thirsty ox?
He would not. The cart needed unloading first and so the ox must stand, silently yearning, jaws working the cud of breakfast with loud, thick sounds of suction and wetly clunking molars, and the flies were maddening but what could be done about flies? Nothing at all, not until the chill of night sent them away and so left the ox to sleep, upright in bovine majesty beneath stars (if one was lucky) which, perhaps, was where the flies slept.
